


Interrogation

by etothepii



Category: Nolanverse - Fandom
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-08-19
Updated: 2008-08-19
Packaged: 2017-10-13 22:32:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,113
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/142436
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/etothepii/pseuds/etothepii
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sex in the interrogation room. Contains knifeplay and noncon.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Interrogation

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Batman Kink Meme. Contains knifeplay and noncon.

The thing, the _thing_ about Bat _man_ is that he’s still just a man, and the Joker knows it. Knows it for sure, knows it as much as he knows that the menoutside are just stupid little bags of meat. Knows it just as much as he knows that they don’t _really_ want the Batman around anymore, let him in because they _need_ him. And he bet that _hurts_.

They’re at an impasse. The Joker grins, waves at the one-way mirror. This place isn’t so bad. It’s not as cozyas the old interrogation room, but that one’s gone now, blown to dust and chunks of rock. _I just want my phone call_. Heh. Heh heh heh. The laughter bubbles out of him, cool and fresh.

Batman curls his hands into fists, and says again, “What did you do?” Demands it, really. The strain is obvious in his voice. How rude.

 _They’d_ caught him two days ago, and _they_ still didn’t know a thing. Didn’t know where the bombs were, if there were bombs. Or the hostages, if there were hostages. All they knew was that there was still his card, showing up in the most _un_ obtrusive places, and things were going _just fine_.

“ _Bat_ man. You know, I didn’t expect to see you here,” he says, and licks his lips. “Aren’t you on the run? Doesn’t look like you’re doing much running,” he points out, eying their surroundings. Interrogation rooms. They’re all the same.

Batman’s learned better than to play nicely with him, learned it faster than it takes most people to figure out (and the police _still_ don’t understand). He pushes the Joker head-first into the interrogation table. _Again_.

“I told you,” he complains, “Not the head! _Fuzzy_! Don’t you listen?”

And they’re against a wall again—Batman’s back to the mirror, cape swirling dramatically around them, holding him up by the front of his shirt. His feet barely touch the floor. The Joker raises his hand and waggles his fingers at the coppers on the other side, flashes them a smile. _I see you_.

“ _What_ did you _do_?” Batman demands again. It’s more of a growl, really, like a dogmad with rage. And mad dogs need to be put in their place.

The police are stupid. They’re brutes, they’re dim, they’ve got all the creativity of a brick. And that’s why the Joker still has three knives. But Batman’s _not_. Batman’s worthy, a core of intelligence behind all his brute-force displays of strength, and the Joker knows he’s only going to have one chance.

All he needs to do is get one blade, _one tiny little knife_ in between Batman’s teeth. Batman has a secret identity. Batman can’t affordto let his pretty little mouth (and _oh_ , that is one _pretty_ mouth) get sliced to ragged red ribbons.

So the Joker laughs and slides his hands up the Batman’s chest, over the armor. His ungloved fingers (they keeptaking his _clothes_ ) skim over the plates, dipping into the softer mesh-like material between them.

Batman punches him in the face, and he tastes blood. He licks it from the inside of his mouth and giggles. “Why the long face, Batman? Can’t a man keep some secrets? Be patient. Besides, you know they’re only going to turn on you when you give them what they want.”

His eyes flicker to the mirror again, and he winks at himself—and at the officers watching. Batman hits him in the face again, and for a minute he sees stars. One, two, three more times, and his eyes flutter shut in masochistic bliss. “Mmm, yeah, you really know how to _treat_ a man,” he purrs. His hand rises to touch Batman’s cheek.

The bat knocks his hand away before it connects with skin, and the Joker’s eyes slit open. “Come on, Batsy,” he taunts with a leer, and runs his tongue over his lips lasciviously, “don’t you want to have a little _fun_?”

He skids when Batman throws him to the floor in disgust, sliding until he hits a wall. He twists just a little, curls slightly, and _yes_. The knife at the hem of his pants slides into his hand; it’s tiny and hides easily in his palm. “C’mon,” he coaxes softly. “C’mon c’mon c’mon.”

And Batman comes, aiming a kick at his chest. He’s fast enough to flip it out of the way, push Batman off balance, and he takes this as his chance. He lunges, knife out.

A handful of seconds later, he’s hurt and bleeding from more than just his face, but he’s _won_ , because they’re both on the ground and he’s holding the blade against Batman’s cheek and the bat is staying _very, very_ still. They won’t be able to stay like this forever, so he inches it slowly into Batman’s mouth, forces it between the man’s top and bottom teeth.

“Oh, look,” he says lightly. He presses the blade against the inside of Batman’s cheek, giggles when he winces. “I think I’ve caught myself a _bat_. You think they’ll come free you?”

Batman’s upper lip curls into a fierce snarl, and the Joker coaxes him upright by poking the pointy bit of the knife into the roof of his mouth.

The Joker _likes_ knives. They’re just so… visceral. He can _feel_ Batman, so close to him, feel the leashed fury and power, all held in check by one _tiny_ little piece of metal. It’s practically _erotic_.

The door doesn’t open. “What’s this?” He whirls them around, faces the mirror. “Does Gotham’s finest want see me unmask the bat too? Do you want to _watch_? Or do you want me to cut open his pretty little mouth so _you_ can find him?”

Batman grabs his wrist, the one in front of his mouth, and the Joker’s momentarily surprised by how _fast_ he is. But it’s not enough. “Ah ah ah,” he warns, and flicks the blade against Batman’s cheek, feels it bite into skin, sinks into the flesh until his wrist is suddenly, just as quickly, released.

Through it all, Batman hasn’t said a _thing_. Probably because there’s a sharp knife between his teeth and attempting to speak would slice his tongue open. But that’s fine with the Joker, because _he_ , at least, can be creative.

He jams the chair beneath the door’s handle in one quick movement. Just. Like. Last. Time. Batman’s eyes flicker to the mirror, and _now, finally_ , the boys in blue make themselves known. Too late! Door’s closed, and faint bangs and shouts come from the other side.

And to think he’d been worried that they were all on a donut break.

Batman’s looking positively murderous now, lips curled in furyangerdisgust, glaring at him from behind the mask.

“Do you think they care? Do you think they’ll try and _stop_ me?” The Joker drags his hand (not the one holding the knife, no no, that one’s not going _anywhere_ ) over Batman’s chest, pressing it against the suit. He’s wanted to touch the suit ever since he first saw him, and it’s as sleek and hard and _sexy_ as he’d imagined. “They _want_ me to do this.”

Batman’s head might be still, but the rest of him, the rest of him’s leaning away, comical, almost exaggerated, trying to get away from his touch.

“Take off your gloves,” the Joker commands, and when the blades start to twist towards him (oh no, not this time, he can learn), he wiggles the knife clenched between Batman’s gritted teeth. “Not like that, Batsy. Just drop ‘em on the floor like a good… _bat_.”

The gloves clatter to the floor, and he kicks them into a corner. Batman’s hands clench into fists. They look like they want to throttle him, and the Joker laughs.

“Now the belt. _Drop_ it, then kick it away.” Batman’s head turns slightly, looking at the mirror, but they’re not going to help him, they’d never help him. “Nononono, look at me. They’re not coming to help you, it’s just you and me, Batsy.”

The Joker jerks the blade, digs it into Batman’s tongue, _feels_ the moment he’s the center of attention again. The belt drops to the floor, reluctantly, and is kicked a couple feet away.

“See, we’re a lot alike, you and me.” He brings the back of his hand to Batman’s cheek, strokes it through the mask. “We _understand_ each other. I understand you, and deep down, _you_ understand _me_. But we’re also _diff_ erent. Because _you_ , you’re bound by all these _rules_.”

His hand splays against Batman’s chest, covers the bat-shaped emblem on the breastplate. He traces its edges with his fingertips. “Can’t be _this_ , can’t do _that._ Can’t go here, can’t touch _that_.”

He digs his nails under one of the metal plates, feels a latch, flicks it, _tugs_ , and the entire thing comes free in his hand. “Can’t let _anyone else_ know who you are under that mask of yours.”

Batman’s breath hitches. The Joker can _see_ the slight jump in his chest, and the he glides his hand over the expanse of tempting, bare skin, scrapes lightly with his fingernails. “And you just _don’t_ know what to do, if one of those silly little rules gets broken.”

“Now, me. It’s a lot easier with me.” He’s working on the next piece of the suit, prying, pulling, _peeling_ Batman away and revealing the soft, _vulnerable_ thing that exists underneath.

“Take away my jacket, my gloves.” Another piece clatters to the ground, revealing more of Batman’s chest. “And I’m still _the Joker_.”

“Wash off my makeup, give me a uniform and a hat,” he says, and now he can see Batman’s stomach, which is unremarkable ex _cept_ for the scars and the muscles that jump under his touch. “And I’m still the Joker. I’m a police officer.” He pauses. “But I’m _still_ _the Joker_ , through and through. Right down to the _bones_. I’ve got nothing to lose.”

“But you, you’ve got everything to lose. Look at you. You’re so _scared_. Of this!” He shakes the knife again, side to side like he’s pulling a bone from a dog, and Batman _growls_. But he doesn’t. Fight. Back. “I’m not going to kill you; it’ll barely even _hurt_.”

“All you’ll get is one _really_ little sl _ice_ , cheeks don’t feel much anyways, and you’ll be able to _stop_ me. Knock me down and hurt me, and I _know_ you want to do that. But you can’t, because I’ll take away your _mask_.” Batman’s entire torso is bare now, and _my_ oh my, he certainly knows how to take care of himself. The muscles are tense, but clearly defined beneath the skin, and the Joker just wants to _taste_ them.

“And all the king’s horses and all the king’s men will see who’s _really_ the Batman. Or maybe,” he suggests, like the idea’s just now occurred to him, “you _want_ this.” He licks his lips.

“No,” Batman grits around the knife in his mouth, and it’s a strangled half-growl.

By now, the ruckus at the door has stopped; it’s a big door, heavy, ten inches of reinforced steel, and breaking into it isn’t the easiest thing in the world. There’s no point in trying to break in. But _really_ , the Joker knows it’s because he’s giving them a damn good show, and Gothamites are all just _vultures_ at heart. It won’t be long before _everyone_ knows just how far their Batman’s willing to go to hide in the shadows.

“Well, how about we put that to the test?” He suggests with false levity. “It’ll be your choice: I give you a wide, happy smile and let you have your way with me, or you let _me_ have my way with _you_ , and no one here will have to know who the Batman is during his day job.”

Batman’s eyes are narrow, suspicious slits.

“You can just nod if you agree,” the Joker says and effortlessly undoes his tie one-handed. “You have… ten seconds to choose. Don’t worry, I’m a man of my _word_.”

He counts down aloud. At _two_ , Batman nods. Oh, goody! He’d been _so_ looking forward to this. He shoves the tie in Batman’s hands, gives a smile that shows his teeth, licks his lips as his mind scans forward, planning and imagining and wondering how far he can push before Batman _snaps_ and everything shatters.

“Tie your hands behind your back.” Batman does, and the Joker whirls him around, checks the tie, adjusts it one-handed ‘til it’ll _actually_ hold against his captive. He’s not stupid.

His knife comes out of Batman’s mouth bloody, just a little, and he can’t help but bounce on the balls of his feet and whistle a cheery tune. This is such a _treat_ , and it looks like no one is going to stophim. He kicks the back of Batman’s knees, and he buckles forward, falling to the floor.

 _Yes yes yes yes_ , he thinks, and _finally_ , and _this is so much_ fun.

He kicks Batman’s exposed torso repeatedly, until the rush of glee no longer jolts through his spine with each kick. He’s breathing heavily when he stops, and Batman’s still on the ground, tied and half-naked and _watching_ him. The Joker licks his lips and palms his cock through his pants, grinding the heel of his palm against his erection. _Yes._

A bruise is forming on Batman’s ribs. He wants to _taste_ it. He _needs_ to taste it. So he does, kneels on the floor and pushes Batman onto his side, drags his tongue over the blossom of reddening, heated skin, feels the smooth muscle and the hardness of his bones underneath. Batman makes another one of those hitching half-gasps, like he’s trying very hard not to react.

He’ll see about _that_.

When the Joker kneels in front of him and reaches for the piece of armor that covers his groin, Batman growls, “Don’t.”

But what he hears is _please._ So he drags the knife up, strokes the edge of the blade over Batman’s bare skin, cuts a shallow line from navel to collarbone and purrs knowingly, just between the two of them, “You don’t want me to stop.”

Carefully, carefully (waiting for a kick that doesn’t come), he removes another piece of Batman’s suit, revealing a pair of black boxer-briefs. Batman’s erection is clearly defined, straining against the fabric, and when the Joker touches his fingers to it, they come back damp.

“Stop.” Batman’s voice changes mid-word, hoarseness _melting_ into smooth (albeit strained) tones. It’s Batman’s _true_ voice, and it curls around the Joker’s spine like a snake, sending flickering bolts of desire through his body.

He drags his fingers through the blood welling up on Batman’s chest, then brings it to the masked man’s mouth. “Let’s turn that frown upside-down.” He draws a garish smile on the bat’s face, a path of blood that drags from one edge of the mask to the other.

Batman tries to bite him only once, and subsides when the Joker pushes his knife into Batman’s side, just below the ribs. He’s still hard. They both are. The fresh wound on Batman’s side is bleeding, but not seriously. When he pokes his finger into it, just a little, just to see what Batman will _do_ , he groans. It’s two parts pain and one part pleasure and

The Batman really _is_ just like him. “Oh, _Batman_ ,” he says, touched (touching himself, roughly rubbing to take the edge off even as he presses harder against the wound, makes Batman _moan_ ). “I didn’t think you’d be _this_ much like me.”

“I’m not like you,” gritted out between gasps, dropping in and out of that smooth, silky voice. “I’m _nothing_ like you.”

“You’re everything like me,” and the Joker proves this by peeling two more pieces of Batman’s hard shell away, until the only armor left is on his legs, shoulders, and upper arms. Without the other plates, the armor protecting his back falls away with little resistance. The knife slices open the boxers, cuts them to itty-bitty shreds that he pushes aside, and then, _then_ Batman really starts to fight back.

Batman brings up his legs, and the Joker can see the play of muscles in the man’s torso as he does it, even as he lands, _slams_ into the mirror and Batman’s up, standing and bare and _so_ very angry. He still has the knife, and Batman’s hands are still tied behind his back, and his chest is heaving and blood is trickling down his side and the Joker just. Licks his lips, and commits the image to memory, because it’s _beautiful_.

He waves the knife in the air, bounces on his toes, and the laughter comes out of him in exhilarated waves. “Now _that’s_ more like it! I knew you weren’t gonna take it, ha ha ha, _lying_ down. C’mon, c’mere.”

Even tied and wounded (just a little, barely love taps, really), Batman’s dangerous. Neither of them hold back and the Joker’s _loving_ it because he’s got all the cards and it’s only been a few minutes before they lock together for one brief moment and he says, “What happened to our deal? Going back on your _word_?”

The fight seeps out of Batman, slowly, but fury remains. The Joker laughs in gleeful triumph. “Are you sure you don’t want to change your mind? Let me give you a little _makeover_? We can show them all who you _really_ are, and they’ll show _you_ what they reallythink of the great _Bat_ man. It’ll be fun.”

“No,” Batman’s head jerks away when the Joker reaches for it with his knife, but he doesn’t step back. “We agreed. What… What do you want me to do?” All growl, all the time.

“You sure you don’t want a cough drop? I bet I can find one here _somewhere_.” He makes a show of patting his pockets.

“Just do it.” _Get it over with_. Batman’s eyes glare at him, but the Joker knows he _wants_ it, wants to be touched and fucked and _hurt_ , and can’t _bear_ to admit it.

Maybe he’s projecting. But _maybe_ , he’s not. Batman doesn’t resist as the Joker pushes him down, first to his knees, then onto his back, lying on his bound arms. Oh, he _glares_ , and he moves slowly, but he’s not _fighting_ and the power sends a heady rush of excitement through the Joker’s body.

The control he’s got right now, oh, it’s _good._ It’s paper-thin, but that makes it all the sweeter. The tables will turn, they’re _destined_ to turn, and he wants to get as much fun as possible before they _do._ When Batman gets him next, when the Joker’s the one tied and helpless on the floor, it’s going to be _glorious_. He almost can’t wait to see all the power and the fury and restraint explode into bright, bright fireworks.

He curls his fingers around Batman’s erection, and is rewarded with a soft, indrawn hiss of air, and Batman’s muscles tense all at once. He mouths the cut on Batman’s side, tastes the salty, coppery blood, prods the wound with his tongue, and Batman _moans_ , low and involuntary.

 _Yes_. The Joker drags his mouth down the myriad of cuts and bruises on Batman’s bare chest, licking and sucking and biting. When he wraps his lips around the head of Batman’s cock, Batman bucks his hips and gasps, making a wordless noise of pleasure.

When the Joker slides his lips down, taking that smooth hardness into his mouth, Batman twists. His shoulders strain against his bonds, and the man who’s really Batman moans, “ _yes_ ,” and “ _more,_ ” and “ _fuck_.”

With a knowing, amused glance at the mirrored glass, the Joker drops the knife and opens his pants, taking himself in hand, so to speak. Ha ha ha haha. Ha. “That’s the plan, Batsy. Don’t worry, you’ll like it.”

He spits in his hand to use as a makeshift (mostly ineffective but that’s the whole _point_ ) lubricant and forces himself in before Batman can stop him, holding his hips down. Batman is tight and hot around him, and the pained, involuntary noises he’s making cause the Joker’s breath to catch in his throat and his pulse to speed up.

Because fucking Batman is nothing like fucking any other man (or woman; he’s not picky). Men are warm and tight and generally, the feel of being surrounded by another living body feels… nice. Interesting. It’s pleasant enough, and he doesn’t complain.

But what he’s doing now, with Batman, is _different_ , and he’s not expecting that. Batman’s struggling against him; the muscles of his upper body and in his arms flex with his efforts. He can practically _taste_ it when Batman’s voice loses its hoarse anger to be replaced by _want_ , and that surrender is the sexiest, most erotic thing he’s experienced _ever_. He can’t help but need _more_ of it.

He bites Batman’s lower lip because he can’t _stop_ himself from doing it. It tastes like blood and sweat and Batman’s tongue snakes out to touch his lips and something cracks inside him and _need_ burns him and he demands hoarsely, “Say it. Beg me.”

The lips twist into a smirk and even though Batman’s legs are around his waist and he’s tied down and his body’s _begging_ for it, the man behind Batman only challenges in his smooth, buttery voice, “No. Make me.”

Forcing Batman to beg is suddenly the most important thing, the _only_ thing he can focus on and he needs it like he needs to breathe, like he’ll _die_ without it.

He lowers his mouth, catches a nipple in his teeth, bites down, hard. Batman’s back arches as if from an electric shock, and he does it again. He curls his fingers tightly around Batman’s cock, strokes and twists and squeezes, using every little trick he’s learned after years and years of practice on himself, until the noises Batman makes are incoherent and they’re both covered in a fine sheen of sweat and Batman’s meeting each of his thrusts with one of his own.

“Say it.”

“ _No_ ,” and he doesn’t know why, but somehow it _hurts_ , because he needsneeds _needs_ to hear it, and he can’t, he can’t—

He can tell when Batman’s close. His muscles tense and he holds his breath and—and the Joker pulls his hand away, waits for frustration to twist Batman’s lips, escaping as an almost-pained noise, before touching him again. He does it again and again, until Batman’s _whimpering_ and his mouth curls into a cruel grin because now Batman knows how _he_ feels.

This time, when the Joker brings his mouth to Batman’s and repeats his demand, Batman wets his lips and pleads brokenly, “ _Please_. I need to— _please._ ”

The sound catches on something inside him, reverberates and resonates and makes him _shudder_ and something wordless and bright explodes inside of him as he finally, _finally_ reaches his release, eyes fixated on the Batman’s bloody lips.

The Joker speaks first, after he gathers together all the scattered pieces of his mind, feeling better than he’s ever previously felt after an orgasm. There’s semen on Batman’s stomach; when the Joker looks down, he sees a streak of it on his vest, and he dabs at it with a finger. He moves to a safe distance.

“You’re a demon in the sack, Batman.” It comes out unfunny, and he tries again. “Was it good for you too?” Better.

“You said you’d cooperate now.” The man behindthe bat is gone now; only the growl remains. “Where are the bombs?”

“What makes you so sure there _are_ anybombs?” But it warms him to realize Batman knows him better than that, and he says, as he tucks himself back into his pants, “City hall, inside the smoke detectors.”

“Untie me,” Batman commands, rage blossoming in his voice, and the Joker laughs.

“Oh, nonono. Why don’t I just…” He slides to the door and kicks the chair out of its way as the bat’s struggles renew. “Let our boys in blue deal with you.”

“Wait! Let me—“ Batman’s mouth snaps shut as he _finally_ gets the joke, reads the punch line clear as day in the silent, empty room with two security cameras and a one way mirror.

“Get dressed?” Ha. Ha ha ha ha.

The Joker laughs when the door swings open and two shaking, nervous men with large guns usher him away, away, away. The door swings shut on Batman and the third man, and he howls in mirth even as he is shoved into a holding cell.

And then, he laughs.  


**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Internal Affairs Report 1387](https://archiveofourown.org/works/142437) by [etothepii](https://archiveofourown.org/users/etothepii/pseuds/etothepii)




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